What Mary Knew
by EllisHendricks
Summary: Mary Watson was convinced she saw something more than her husband was seeing, something between two of her daughter's godparents. Set during 'The Six Thatchers', immediately after Rosie's christening, before flashing forward to post-'The Final Problem'. Sherlolly and Warstan.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

The whole day had been a bit of a whirlwind, but a good one nonetheless. Now that they were back at home and everyone had been fed and watered, John Watson felt that he could relax a bit – and finally, finally get a drink himself. Mary was over by the table where the cake and buffet were laid out - or what remained of it at least – cradling a champagne flute. She looked happy. He loved it when she was smiling without realising he was watching.

"There you are!" Mary exclaimed, as he came up to her. John kissed her temple and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. "Where have you been?"

"Oh, you know, just talking to Greg Lestrade about a few things. Recent cases."

"You mean you were watching the match highlights on the upstairs telly."

How did Mary do that? He couldn't do anything but shrug slightly, but it was clear that she wasn't upset with him anyway.

"Where's our daughter, by the way?" he asked. "You know, the one we had christened today."

Mary laughed lightly.

"She's working the room," she replied, pointing to the other side of the living room. He followed her finger to a gathering in the corner, at the centre of which was Rosie Watson, being held by Mrs Hudson, who looked to be feeding her tiny pieces of christening cake.

"And what are you doing?" John asked his wife.

"Having a breather. Watching."

John's next thought was to wonder where on earth Sherlock was. Probably long gone, if previous form was anything to go by – to be honest, he was amazed that Sherlock had been persuaded to come back to the house.

"He's over there," Mary said, somehow reading his mind.

Somehow he had missed him the first time – probably because Sherlock was, intentionally or not, usually the most conspicuous person in the room – but his friend was part of the group with Rosie, standing slightly behind and to the side of Molly. Tapping furiously into his phone, of course, but managing to cope with being part of a gathering.

"Seems to be on his best behaviour," John observed, tipping the last of bottle of champagne into a coffee mug, the only clean receptacle he could find.

"Yeah, and it's obvious why."

John frowned. Sometimes his wife was alarmingly similar to his best friend in this regard, assuming that he must have spotted something and therefore making him feel like a halfwit. Which he was not. Although…

"Why?"

Mary nuzzled slightly into his embrace.

"Look at them."

"Who?"

"Sherlock and Molly."

John did look at them. What was he supposed to be seeing? Sherlock was still on his phone and Molly was talking to Mrs Hudson. Molly looked good today, he thought – bright, happy, less tired.

"What about them?"

"Mark my words, John Watson, those two aren't going to be too far behind us," Mary said, emphasising her point by poking his chest with her finger.

Eventually, he caught on to her meaning, and nearly burst out laughing, just managing to reign it in.

"Sherlock and Molly? Are you kidding?"

One glance at her face and he knew that she wasn't.

"Of course I'm not. It's obvious!"

John screwed up his face. He and his wife clearly had very different ideas of 'obvious'.

"Look, Mary, I know today has been lovely, and I know that you'd love everyone to be happy and neatly paired off," he replied. "But I think that champagne is doing a bit of the talking now."

"Don't you patronise me, John Watson," Mary retorted. "I'm a trained assassin, remember? I'm merely seeing and observing."

John looked again, willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. Molly was in the process of taking Rosie from Mrs Hudson, adjusting the baby in her arms. This act seemed to distract Sherlock from his phone momentarily, but he soon went back to his texting.

"They're just…normal," he said, unsure what he was supposed to be seeing.

"He keeps looking at her," Mary said, lowering her voice even though there was little chance anyone would overhear them over the general chatter. "When he thinks nobody can see him. It's quite funny, actually – he'll suddenly realising he's been gazing too long and he quickly goes back to his phone."

He did remember Sherlock's reaction earlier that day, when Molly arrived at the church in the cab she'd shared with Lestrade. Sherlock had sort of done a double-take, but it didn't seem like anything really.

"Look, look!" Mary hissed, poking him again. He wished now that she hadn't had her nails done before the christening. "Look where his hand is!"

Sherlock had been persuaded to admire his goddaughter, and as he leant from behind Molly, his hand – the one not glued to his phone – rested lightly at Molly's waist.

"When does he willingly touch anyone, let alone like that?" Mary whispered. "And look, she's pretending she hasn't noticed but look how she's smiling."

Sherlock's hand did seem to be lingering at Molly's waist a little longer than was probably necessary, but even he had noticed that Sherlock was becoming more comfortable with what other people considered normal interactions – it didn't seem anything more than that.

"Did you see them in the church?" Mary continued.

"I'm sorry, you were watching our friends during our daughter's christening service?" John asked, amused.

Mary shoved him lightly.

"Just the odd glimpse," she replied. "They looked adorable."

"Now I know you've had too much to drink," he said. "Sherlock is many things, but I doubt anyone has accused him of being adorable since he was about Rosie's age. Not even his mother."

"They looked…married."

"Oh, you heard them arguing over who's going to put the bins out, then?" John asked. His wife was definitely getting carried away. Yes, Sherlock was a much changed man from the one he met in the lab at Bart's all those years ago, but he'd always made his position on romantic relationships very clear.

"Mary, I-"

"Hand's on her shoulder, look, look!" Mary hissed again, nudging him a little too enthusiastically in the ribs.

And yes, Sherlock's hand was now on Molly's shoulder. And yes, he wasn't even looking at his phone. But he seemed to be talking to Lestrade – or at least listening to him - who looked a little worse for wear (John had cracked open a bottle of scotch for the pair of them while they caught up with the half-time scores), his attention not really even on Molly.

"He's _comfortable_ with her," Mary said, and he noted the happy tone in her voice. "Because he loves her. Even if he doesn't realise it yet."

John opened his mouth to protest, to rubbish her idea, when he realised that Sherlock had broken away from the group and was coming towards them. He felt Mary pinch his thigh in warning, a little too hard for his liking.

"Sherlock!" Mary exclaimed. "You're not leaving, are you?"

Sherlock frowned, as though Mary was suggesting something completely absurd.

"No, I'm merely getting another drink," he replied. "Lestrade is talking about his divorce again, so more alcohol is definitely required."

They watched as Sherlock refilled the two glasses in his hand.

"Greg's probably had enough," John said, nodding towards the detective, who at that moment seemed to have Mrs Hudson in a bear-hug.

"Lestrade is a grown man who should, in theory, be capable of making his own decisions about his alcohol consumption," Sherlock replied. "But if he does wish to continue to imbibe, he will have to take it upon himself to visit the drinks table."

"So both drinks are for you?" John asked.

Sherlock gave him the 'imbecile' look again.

"Of course not. One of them is for Molly."

As soon as Sherlock's back was turned and he was making his way back to Molly, John felt his wife's elbow in his side again. He sighed. She was apparently viewing Sherlock's normal – albeit, polite - gesture of getting Molly a drink to be a sign of impending matrimony.

"I'm telling you," Mary said, selecting a grape from the fruit platter on the table. "This time next year, things are going to be very different."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

It had been easy to settle Rosie to sleep – too much excitement for a six-month old to handle. John had to concede that their daughter was an easy baby, if such a thing existed, and she seemed to thrive in company. He wondered how long he should wait before suggesting they might have another one.

When he entered the bedroom, Mary was already in bed, propped up and reading her book. She put down the novel and patted the bed beside her, although he didn't need inviting. The day had been exhausting but…perhaps not too exhausting. John slid under the covers beside her and scooted over to take her in his arms. Mary's fingers curled around his neck as he kissed her. Yes, definitely not too exhausted.

"Maybe he needs help," Mary said suddenly.

John conceded that the blood-flow to his brain wasn't especially strong at that moment, but still, what was she talking about?

"Sherlock," she continued. "With Molly."

Were they really going to talk about this now?

"Maybe you should talk to him."

Apparently, they _were_ going to talk about this now. John rolled back onto his own pillow.

"This is not a good idea, Mary," he said. "For so many reasons."

"Such as?"

"Such as this thing is all in your head," he replied, realising it came out a little harsher than he intended. "Yes, Molly Hooper used to have a crush on Sherlock, but she's over that now – hardly surprising, given the way he used to treat her. And yes, I believe that Sherlock cares about Molly and these days he wouldn't deliberately hurt her, but there's no more to it than that. And this is Sherlock we're talking about – even if he did decide to pursue some kind of romantic relationship, I just think that Molly…she's too…"

"Too what, John?" Mary asked.

In the gloom, he could still feel her eyes piercing his forehead.

"I hope you weren't going to say 'too ordinary'," she continued.

Immediately, he felt guilty – that was exactly the word he'd been fumbling for.

"Because if there's one person you can't describe as ordinary, John, it's Molly Hooper," Mary continued. "She's one of the most brilliant women I've ever met, certainly the most brilliant I've had the pleasure of calling my friend. She's smart, tough, perceptive, strong – and she has a big heart."

"Yes, which could very easily get broken," John put in, remembering all too well the horrible awkwardness of those early interactions in the lab, not to mention the ill-fated Christmas party, back when he was still seeing Janette.

"As I said, John, she's tough," Mary said. "And she _gets_ him. More than you or I, Molly Hooper really _gets_ Sherlock Holmes. She knows what he's capable of, the good as well as the bad. She can keep him in line like nobody else. And he's different with her, you've seen it. He lets his guard down because he feels safe with her; he trusts her with his secrets, he listens to her, he values her opinion, he wants her to like him. How many people can you say that about?"

"So they're friends," John said, pushing back. "Good friends. He's damn lucky to have her, I'll admit that, and for Sherlock to even be capable of maintaining such a friendship is no small feat. But I always thought…I don't know…the only woman I thought might be different was Irene Adler."

"The Woman?" Mary said. She sounded as though she was scoffing at him. "From 'A Scandal in Belgravia'?"

"Yeah. You didn't see them together – he was…intrigued…unsettled by her." He wasn't the only one, John thought, with fleeting guilt. "She still texts him, you know."

"I thought she was dead?"

"Well, I'm starting to doubt whether anyone I've previously thought to be dead actually is," John replied. "She's in hiding, I think. He claims he doesn't text her back."

Mary snorted.

"So, Irene Adler. A violent dominatrix in exile due to her links to the criminal underworld – that's who you think would make Sherlock happy?"

"This is Sherlock we're talking about - murders make him happy, impossibly complicated unsolved crimes make him happy. Why would his choice of woman be any different – if, _if_ he was even interested?"

"Because the heart wants what it wants, John!" Mary said, propping herself up on one elbow. "And Sherlock's wants Molly."

John couldn't believe they were spending their evening discussing this. Between the two of them, he had thought he was the romantic one, but his wife was really going to town on this.

"He would break her heart," he said, firmly. "I love Sherlock, you know I do, but he isn't capable of putting someone else first. He would let her down, abandon her the second an interesting case appeared. There'd be no hearts and flowers, no weekend walks in the countryside, no nights snuggled on the sofa watching crap telly."

"Then I don't think you know Molly as well as you think you do," Mary retorted. "She could have had all that, she had a taste of it with Tom. Why do you think they broke up?"

John wasn't sure whether this was rhetorical. He tried to think back to the brief, slightly awkward conversation with Molly all those months ago, when he'd felt he should commiserate her on the end of her engagement.

"She said something about it fizzling out," he said, feeling very vague on the details.

"Because once Sherlock was back on the scene, she realised that Tom – lovely thought he was - was a poor substitute," Mary said. "And I think she realised she didn't want what she thought she wanted."

"Which was?"

"Normal. She didn't want normal."

"But hang on" – now John was propped on his elbow, too, facing her – "A second ago you suggested Sherlock wants Molly and not Irene because he wants normal – but now you're saying that Molly _doesn't_ want normal."

He was too bloody tired for this conversation.

"I think they meet in the middle," Mary replied, simply. "That's why it works."

With his vision limited in the darkened room, John could almost hear the cogs turning in his wife's mind. Just lately, it had felt as though a calm had settled over their lives; they had dealt with Mary's revelations about her past, they had welcomed their beautiful daughter into the world, and even Sherlock seemed more stable, fortified – he believed – by his wife's friendship. So why did Mary insist on trying to poke the hornet's nest?

"Will you talk to him?" she asked.

"I'm not going to talk to him, no."

"But if he asks you for advice, will you talk to him?"

"Yes, but that's not going to happen. I am not going to push Sherlock towards Molly Hooper because it's a very bad idea, and it wouldn't be fair to either of them. Not to Sherlock because I don't think he's ready for that, and not to Molly because I still don't believe he has that kind of interest in her. Now, are we going to shut up about this now and have sex before our daughter wakes up again?"

He heard Mary giggle, and then felt the mattress shift as she edged her way back over to him, wrapping her arm around his waist. He found his wife's lovely face in the darkness and took it in his hands, kissing her and simultaneously shifting so that his body was flush with hers. He closed his eyes, starting to lose himself. And then –

"You may think you're right about this, but you're wrong on one thing."

"Why are you talking again?" he groaned.

"Sherlock Holmes loves snuggles."

"Please don't tell me you know that from any practical experience."

She laughed again.

"Not me, no – Molly. Did you know he stayed with her a few times when he was supposed to be dead?"

He told her he did. Although he had scarcely seen Molly during the two years Sherlock was absent, it still smarted to know that she _knew_ and never said anything.

"And a few times since," Mary added. "They've shared a bed."

"Shared a bed?!"

"Not shagged or anything – not according to Molly – but shared a bed."

"Oh, so a bit like us, you mean?" John sighed.

"But he likes to snuggle, apparently. Molly told me she would wake up to find him wrapped around her, holding her. How sweet is that? But don't say anything to Sherlock. I got the impression Molly was confiding in me."

"Don't worry, I have no intention of discussing Sherlock's snuggling habits with him," John reassured her.

He had to admit that, with this new information, it was possible to see how Mary was coming to certain conclusions about their friends. But it was too far-fetched, too much of a leap out of character for Sherlock, who willingly ran towards danger, lived for the adrenaline of the chase, revelled in intellectual combat. He would never allow himself to be distracted by a relationship, to give himself wholly to another human being, to show that necessary vulnerability – which was why Irene Adler was perfect for him.


	3. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Though he had no Mind Palace of his own, those conversations, those moments with Mary had come back to John with surprising crystal clarity. He felt her presence at his shoulder the whole time he was typing, revising and re-typing his speech.

Mary had been right, she'd been bloody right.

He would be up in a minute, and he gently tapped the cue cards on his knee. He was in the middle of the strangest wedding he would ever have the privilege of attending, and with the strangest gathering. On the table slightly to his left were Mr and Mrs Holmes, along with Mycroft and Lady Smallwood (there was another marriage he hadn't seen coming). Mrs Holmes had been dabbing at her eyes all day, and on a number of occasions had to be physically prised away from her younger son, such was her overwhelming happiness. Mycroft wore a look of faint nausea disinterest, but John knew how he really felt.

Next to them were Greg Lestrade and his wife (divorce on hold), Mrs Hudson and her latest beau, and his own beautiful daughter. Rosie was two years old and looked so much like her mother that it sometimes hurt John to look at her. But he took strength from that, too, and had been giving her little, reassuring waves while she enjoyed playing games and looking at picture books with the Lestrades and Mrs Hudson.

The only other faces John knew belonged to Mike Stamford and his wife, and a handful of colleagues from Bart's, friends of Molly's. But that didn't mean the room wasn't full. Initially, Wanda Holmes had been devastated by the short guest list, barely twenty people, including the bride and groom. John had overheard the conversations in Sherlock's living room, Mrs Holmes' pleas to be allowed to invite sundry cousins, neighbours, old family friends. Not a proper celebration otherwise, she had said. Sherlock's response to this, of course, had been typical Sherlock…

Although John hadn't counted, there had to be close to a hundred members of Sherlock's homeless network in the room – men, women, young, old, gleaned from all over the city. These were the people who were important to Sherlock, to whom he felt indebted - and Molly was willing to indulge him because, John knew, without them the Reichenbach Fall could have ended very differently.

And beside John, to his right, were his two friends. He still didn't know exactly what had passed between Sherlock and Molly after the events at Sherrinford, what words had been exchanged, what confessions made, but here they were. _Slightly more than a year_ , _so you were a bit off there, Mary._

Molly looked beautiful and _happy_ , so happy. She and Sherlock held hands under the table, while her other hand gently toyed with the napkin which, like half of the others, had been expertly folded to resemble a deerstalker hat. The other half were folded into cats.

There was something that Mary hadn't foreseen, though, something John knew she would have been delighted by: Dr Molly Hooper-Holmes was nearly eight months' pregnant. She and Sherlock certainly hadn't hung around on that score – if it had been an accident, neither were saying, but John knew that his friend was already utterly smitten with his unborn child. Though John had joked that Best Man duties did not extend to delivering the couple's child during the wedding breakfast.

"Pray silence for the best man!"

Guests skittered back to their seats, settled down, sat obediently while their glasses were being refilled. As John got to his feet, he could see out of the corner of his eye Molly and Sherlock exchanging a kiss, something – if you'd asked him a year ago – he'd have told you would be weird to see, but he realised that it never did, it never had. Mary was right – they worked, they met in the middle. Now they turned to look at him, expectantly, Molly's deep brown eyes smiling at him, Sherlock giving the slightest of winks.

John cleared his throat.

"As everybody here knows," he began. "I have made a career out of being proven wrong."

A laugh rippled across the room.

"But this time, it wasn't by the smart-arse seated to my right," he continued. "It was by the wisest, sharpest human being I have ever had the privilege of knowing…"

 **THE END**


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